


The Fragility of Happiness

by whopackedthese



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Assault, Case Fic, Diabetes, Multi, Paternal Lestrade, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Sexual Abuse, Torture, diabetic, precanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopackedthese/pseuds/whopackedthese
Summary: Greg knew from the start that he would need Sherlock's input when the body of a woman was found with clear signs of a brutal assault; he never could have imagined that he would have to take a life, save a life, and defend an army of people to get to the answers he required for justice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WORK IN PROGRESS. Explicit content ahead; involving rape, abuse, torture, and murderous intent. Please do not read if you feel that these are topics that will cause you mental or emotional upset. However, if you chose to read on I thank you for your time. 
> 
> Co-written by afinecollector. Thank you for all of your medically-minded input, and synonym suggestions!

'You’ve been quiet,' Greg knocked the paper file in his right hand off of the top of Sherlock’s head as he stepped into his office, not entirely surprised to find the young man sitting exactly where he’d left him an hour earlier, nor to see the coffee he’d been handed still sitting untouched on the desk in front of him. 'I half expected you to follow me to lunch and talk my ear off about Donovan pissing you off, you’ve been in a funny mood since she walked into that grot of a flat by the river.' When his joke fell on deaf ears, even as he added a laugh as he rounded his desk and dropped down into his chair, Greg knocked his knuckles off the top of the desk three times and then waved his hands before Sherlock’s face. 'Blink once if you can hear me in there.' 

Slowly, Sherlock inhaled and blinked himself back to life. He focused his sharp gaze and fixed his blue eyes on the DI across from him. 'Sorry, what?' he frowned so deeply it furrowed a heavy ridge into the bridge of his nose.

'What’s the matter with you?' Greg asked with a slight laugh and leaned back in his chair. 'You’ve barely been with me at all today, are you feeling okay? Have you eaten today, do I really need to pin you down again and check your BM?' 

Sherlock frowned at him before schooling his expression into something less odd and nodded his head, 'I’m alright, and it’s seven-point-two.' He coughed once to clear his throat, tempted to add ‘ _so there_ ’ when Greg looked at him in quite surprise. 'I was thinking about something that Donovan said…' 

'Mate, I’m tired of telling you to shrug it off; she’s a schoolyard bully when it comes to you, mostly because you bite to every bait she puts on the end of her line. Just ignore her,' Greg rolled his eyes and then continued fishing through the mess of documents on his desk. 

Sherlock tutted, 'No, nothing like that. I mean about the body in flat. She said, exactly, that it looked like the poor woman had been raped by everything but a man.' He frowned. 'Who’s doing the examination?' 

Greg gave Sherlock a look of pure disgust, 'Look, Sherlock…' 

'If she wasn’t raped personally by her attacker then it speaks volumes about who we’re looking for.' Sherlock defended his thoughts. 'It’s a control thing, a sign of exerting dominance, to abuse your victims with everything but your own penis; you’re showing them that they cannot stand up to anything you do, even if you’re not physically doing it. Do you understand? If she was sexually assaulted, but he didn’t physically rape her himself _bodily_ … if I know, I can narrow it down.' he tapped his temple with his left index finger. 'Please, Lestrade. Who’s doing the examination?'

Greg drew in a deep breath and exhaled it heavily. 'Molly Hooper,' he revealed. 'But if you’re planning on going over there, you are not going on your own. I brought you in on this case, so you work _with_ me. Wherever you’re planning on going, whatever you’re even _thinking_ about doing, we do it together. Have you got that?' 

Sherlock pinched his lips together before relenting under duress, 'Fine, but we have to go now.' 

Greg watched Sherlock push to his feet, suddenly seeming to be filled with energy and the ability to power through life that was lacking in him for the last two hours or more. He held his hands out to his mounted desk, 'Do you not see all of this, Sherlock? I can’t just go dancing off to the morgue with you.' 

'You promised me you trusted me,' Sherlock looked at him, eyes sharp, and all but pouted. 

'I do,' Greg rolled his eyes, apologising without words. ‘But-,’

'Then come with me now,' Sherlock raised his eyebrows. ‘Lestrade, please…’

Greg held his hands up in defeat, ‘Alright, you win. Ten minutes, okay? Let me have a bloody fag first. I’m not sure I can stomach watching the internal examination of a dead woman’s unmentionables without it.’ 

 

Greg followed a step behind Sherlock’s brooding frame as they moved through Saint Bartholomew’s hospital with one target in mind. Sherlock’s entire persona had changed in the car; he became more fidgety and mentally over-focused, keen to get moving on the train of thought his brain was taking at ten miles a minute while the car was going thirty per hour. Greg took changes in Sherlock’s behaviour one of two ways - hypoglycaemia, in which case he would attempt to feed the man up with carbs and juices to right-side-up his internal workings, or agitation at work, when his mind was reeling faster than the world around him would facilitate and he grew anxious and angered by the slowness he was met with. He knew that, right at this moment, he was up against the latter and it was both good and bad - what Sherlock knew would be useful, that much was a given, but he knew that until Sherlock could prove his theories he would be insufferable to be around. He only hoped that when they reached Molly Hooper in the lab, the examination would be over and her answers would be documented. 

‘Will you slow down, just a beat?’ Greg groaned, jogging a step or two to keep up to Sherlock’s side as they moved through the endless corridors. 

‘Why don't you speed up?’ Sherlock countered and offered a smile that was anything but teasing and mirthful. Greg rolled his eyes and thrust his hands into the pockets of his open coat, taking wider steps to ensure he didn’t lose the man beside him in his flurry. 

‘Listen, Sherlock, we go in there respectfully, you hear me?’ Greg put his hand out and grasped for Sherlock’s arm. ‘I mean it,’ he said as Sherlock attempted to swing him off. ‘She’s someone’s kid.’

Sherlock had a look of a scolded teenager for a second or two, but had the decency to retrain his expression and thought Greg’s words through. ‘I know,’ he agreed and wriggled his arm free of the Detective Inspector’s fingers. ‘Complete respect and dignity.’ 

Less than two minutes later, at least Greg had the presence of self to look apologetic as he came through the double doors into morgue behind Sherlock, startling the young pathologist who squeaked audibly behind the surgical mask she was just dragging down from her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised, for both himself and Sherlock, and tried to smile at her. ‘Any chance you’re just finishing up with our woman from this morning?’ 

Recovering from her scare, Molly nodded her head. ‘Yes, actually. I’ve got notes, but not the full, detailed report.’ She held up her notepad. ‘I need to combine the blood results, tox-screen, DNA…’

‘I only have one question,’ Sherlock interrupted her before she could say anything more. Molly blinked at him, looking nervous as he towered over her. ‘Semen?’ 

Greg closed his eyes at the coldness of Sherlock’s approach and winced, waiting for Molly to falter. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see Molly looking barely stopped in her stride as she shook her head, ‘Vaginally, no.’ 

Sherlock looked to Greg, frowning in slight confusion. ‘Elsewhere?’ Sherlock asked plainly, and Greg grimaced and braced himself for whatever he might hear. 

Molly licked her lips anxiously, ‘In her hair, and UV light showed it across her chest, her face…,’ she elaborated, subconsciously bringing her notepad tight against her chest. ‘She had been penetrated; I found wooden splintering, so her attacker used an implement of some kind to rape her with.’ 

Sherlock tapped the back of his hand against Greg’s bicep, ‘There was a wooden broom in the flat,’ he stated, ‘there were also broken window frames, they were wooden too.’ Greg felt his stomach churn as he nodded, recalling the state of the room they’d found the woman in. ‘Anderson should have samples of the wood, right? We can cross reference.’ 

‘By all means,’ Molly nodded her head meekly, ‘...I have samples. Alarmingly, there was _a lot_.’ She twitched the right side of her cheek in a sad sort of smile. ‘I also ran a tox on her blood,’ Molly added as she watched Sherlock turn as if he were about to leave. He stopped and turned back to her, and Molly felt scrutinised as he looked at her with his sharp stare. ‘Opiates. It is possible they were self administered, she has old track marks on both forearms but considering she has defensive wounds on her hands from her attacker, it’s likely that it was given in an attempt to overdose her and subdue her. The level is...high.’ 

Greg inhaled through his nose, ‘Probably assumed that nobody would take any notice of another dead junkie.’ He pushed back his coat and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. 

‘People usually don’t, that’s why…,’ Sherlock shook his head trying to capture one single thought from the tens that raced through his brain. ‘What if she was a hostage? Not a seasoned user, but somebody who’d been captive for a period of months and injected over that time by whomever was holding her? Track marks, yes, but not self-inflicted. It isn’t always easy to use a needle in your non-dominant hand.’ He looked at Greg, looking for confirmation that he didn’t sound far-fetched in his ideas. 

‘I guess, yeah,’ Greg nodded, ‘It’s a high possibility.’ 

‘None of the track marks are _old_ old,’ Molly confirmed and Sherlock smiled at her. 

Greg elbowed Sherlock’s side lightly, ‘Maybe don’t do the smiling.’ 

Sherlock schooled his expression, ‘So she’s sexually assaulted but not bodily; has been injected with opiates over time; signs of sexually dominant behaviour being exerted upon her…,’ he brought his right hand up to his face and began to chew at the side of his thumbnail. 

‘I’ll have the report done as quickly as I can, then it’s all yours. If there’s anything you want repeating, if you want to...be there, I can do that, we can do that.’ Molly looked between the two men. 

‘One more question, Mol’,’ Greg said as Sherlock turned to leave. Molly raised her eyebrows, waiting. ‘Do you have an ID?’ 

Molly shook her head, smiling a little at the shortened way in which Greg said her name, ‘Not yet - I’m waiting on a DNA match, but I’ll text you or something when it comes in?’ 

Greg smiled at her gratefully, ‘Thanks, Molly,’


	2. Chapter 2

‘We still have no real, clear leads, and I know we’re all frustrated by this but we cannot allow it to affect how we work….’ Greg held out both of his arms at his sides, addressing his team with that humble ‘please give me a change here, guys’ way of his dominant in his voice. ‘I finally got an ID on our victim this morning from Molly at Bart’s, her name is Alison Greenwood. She was twenty-nine years old, originally from Pembrokeshire and had moved here with a partner she subsequently split from but she stayed, working for the last three years at the coffeehouse just off the river, and she was working toward her law degree.’ Sally closed her eyes to the personification of their victim; no longer was she Jane Doe, no longer was she unknown, unloved, unwanted. She had a life, a story, a history and a family who would now need to be notified of the death of their loved one. ‘There are currently no matches on the DNA taken from Alison’s body, but it has been confirmed that the DNA samples are from three separate people.’ 

‘That’s heinous,’ Sally voiced, screwing her eyes closed tightly. 

‘Completely insane,’ Greg agreed, ‘And that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. We’re collecting the details of Alison’s family; we’ll patch it to Wales, but I’d like some of us to be involved when the news is given, so that we can reinforce to her family that we’re doing everything we can here to get the bastards who did this to her,’ Greg said passionately. 

‘I don’t understand why you haven’t got anything yet,’ Sally raised her voice a little and focused her eyes on Sherlock who was sitting to the left of Greg, his bottom perched on a desk, listening to the details being passed around and reading the reactions in the room. ‘Isn’t this your raison d’etre - a juicy murder to sink your freaky teeth into?’ 

‘Donovan,’ Greg warned her once, his expression telling her immediately he would not offer a second. She jutted her jaw and drew her folded arms down from across her chest. ‘Pierce, Donovan - I want you two to liaise with Pembrokeshire police, I’ll give you our official statement.’ When he received Sally’s nod of agreement he raised his eyebrows and called the meeting to a close, ‘Right, thanks then….’ 

Sherlock remained still as everybody disbanded and he steadied himself against the desk with both hands at his sides, fingers curling underneath to lock him in place. ‘You’re sending people to Pembrokeshire?’

Greg frowned at the young man, ‘Why would I, Sherlock? She was attacked here, she was murdered _here_ , what good is it for us to go to bloody Pembrokeshire?’ 

Sherlock pulled his lower lip into his mouth, biting at it between his teeth for a moment, and then released it. ‘Cigarette?’ He raised his eyebrows on his porcelain forehead, furrowing it. 

Greg looked at his watch; it was ten am, give or take an odd minute. He looked back at Sherlock and jerked his head toward the office’s main doors. ‘C’mon.’ 

Sherlock hopped nimbly to his feet and trailed the DI out of the main doors and down the fire exit stairway that led out onto an outside metal staircase. They remained at the parapet on the top, gazing down on their own little area of London below them. Sherlock lit his cigarette before holding light out to the DI, who gratefully accepted the gesture. Wind blew wildly around them, flicking Sherlock’s hair in every which way, but they didn’t relent and return indoors. Exhaling a lungful of smoke, Sherlock wet his lips and looked to his left at the DI. 

‘So, Pembrokeshire,’ he broached again and he could almost feel the force of the eye-roll that Greg offered him in response. ‘Hear me out,’ Sherlock snapped at him, ‘The attack on her was brutal, dominant, excessive; power was their main grasp, they wanted to show her how much stronger than her they were, how much power they had over her. You don’t act that brutally if you didn’t already know the person.’ Greg’s brows twitched slightly in agreement of the analysis. Sherlock widened his eyes at him, silently praising him for finally catching up. ‘Maybe it’s her ex-lover she moved here with, perhaps it’s family from Wales. Whoever attacked her knew her, and for some reason or another felt emasculated by her. They were trying to show her they were still all man. Random attacks are not like that, you know that Lestrade.’ 

Greg drew heavily on his cigarette, and nodded as he exhaled. ‘Alright, so, Alison knew her attacker. It makes more sense that it’s the guy she came to London with, or someone she got to know up here. Why are so set on someone going to Pembrokeshire?’ Greg shrugged his shoulders and turned his body as the wind blew hard, trying to shield himself a little from the strength. 

Sherlock squinted into the gust and drew his shoulders high up around his neck. ‘I don’t know why, but like I said if it was somebody she knew, which it’s got to be, then if the guy she came up here with is responsible, it’s possible he could have gone back home,’ he said, wincing at the chill. ‘Don’t keep looking at me like that, I just think it’s important.’ 

Greg dug his tongue into his right cheek and flicked his eyes up and down Sherlock’s face. He sighed and nodded slowly, his entire body admitting defeat with that simple movement. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘You think it’s important,’ and took another drag of his cigarette. ‘But you do know I would need clearance for that?’ He exhaled. ‘Someone from my team can’t just swan off to Wales in the middle of a murder investigation.’ 

‘It isn’t _swanning off_ ,’ Sherlock shook his head. He tossed the butt of his cigarette to the ground below and watched it get swept away in another gust of wind. ‘It’s important for the case. And I actually meant for you to go - and for me to come with you.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Greg laughed loudly and shook his head at Sherlock’s complete lack of forward thinking. 

‘I’m serious, Lestrade,’ Sherlock hugged his coat around him. ‘It’d be beneficial to swing over that way and see if he’s there.’ 

‘Shouldn’t we make sure he’s not here in London, first?’ Greg smirked and raised his eyebrows, ‘Anyway, let me see you convince Gregson of that little idea of yours,’ Greg laughed again at the wide-eyed look of mock fear that fluttered across Sherlock’s face. He threw his cigarette butt away after stubbing it against the banister of the stairwell. ‘C’mon, back inside. I’m freezing my tits off.’

* * * * * 

‘Ah shit, sorry,’ Greg apologised out of habit and stopped in the doorway of his office as he watched Sherlock packing away his glucose meter. He averted his eyes, suddenly interested in the odd pattern of the carpet tiles, feeling awkward but not entirely sure why he did. He’d seen Sherlock in more personal and intimate ways than pricking his fingers. Perhaps it was the human aspect that made him feel uneasy, the reminder that Sherlock was not the machine he portrayed himself to be.

Sherlock looked up, jutting out his lower lip, and rose from Greg’s desk chair. ‘Don’t be,’ he shook his head, slipping the small black wallet into the left pocket of his coat. ‘I’m a little low,’ he stated. ‘It’s about one, so if the floor can spare you for half an hour or so, will you swing by Bart’s with me? I promise I will get something of substance to eat.’ 

‘What do you want at Bart’s?’ Greg asked, leaning against the doorframe, and kept the door itself open with the heel of his left foot as his hands we occupied in supporting a collection of folders. Sherlock hovered in front of him. ‘Spill, Sherlock, or the answer is just going to be a blunt no and I’ll send someone to the diner down the road for the heftiest pasta dish they can find.’ 

Sherlock smirked at the threat but offered his explanation freely, ‘I want to run the samples of the wood splinters myself.’ 

‘That’s Anderson’s job,’ Greg nodded at him. ‘I know you and he don’t get on, but if you’re going to do things like steal his work because you don’t think he can do it, then you’re never going to get on.’ He shook his head, ‘No, Sherlock. I’m not letting you - leave it to Anderson.’

‘Anderson doesn’t know what he’s doing,’ Sherlock whined petulantly, ‘Or what I want to do.’ 

‘Then tell him,’ Greg slipped into the office and let the door swing closed behind him, sliding quietly into the frame. ‘Tell him what you’re idea is, tell him what he’s looking for. But I’m pretty certain that, having got this job in the first place, Sherlock, he knows how to complete forensic analysis.’ He stared Sherlock down as his sharp blue eyes did their best to bore into Greg. ‘Besides, I need your help with something here.’ 

Sherlock flopped down into the chair in front of Greg’s desk and played with the idea of throwing a considerable strop before he decided against it. ‘With what?’ he asked, watching Greg move around the desk to take his seat behind it. 

Greg handed Sherlock the top folder from four within his hands after he had let them scatter down on his desk. ‘Andrew Carter,’ Greg pointed as Sherlock drew the paper file open. He watched Sherlock’s eyes flick over the front sheet and couldn’t help but smile at the frown on his brow when he looked up for a clue, shaking his head a little. ‘Alison Greenwood’s moving partner.’ Greg pointed out. ‘They came here from Wales together, and split within relatively short space of time given they’d planned to move here to get married…’ he elaborated. ‘He’s a civil servant.’ 

Sherlock, having peered back down at the file, snapped his eyes back up at the DI. ‘Ask me what I think you’re going to ask me, and see how quickly I resign my help.’ Greg leaned back in his chair and feigned surprise at the response. Sherlock glared at him. ‘I’m not taking this to my brother.’ 

‘Why not? You were looking to sit in Bart’s running splinters through every test available five minutes ago, Sherlock. I thought you were invested in this with me?’ Greg held his empty palms out. ‘Take the file to Mycroft, dig about Andrew and see if we can get any leads to go on… I’m serious; I need to know we’ve ruled out everything in our back garden before we trip off to Pembrokeshire on your hunch.’ He rubbed his hands together before him and then rested them in his lap. ‘What better way of finding out about our currently _only_ possible suspect than by talking to the man who employs him?’

Sherlock growled slightly, snapping the paper file shut between both hands. He gripped it with the fingers of his right hand as he rose from the chair. ‘One hour; if he gives me nothing of merit, I want Anderson’s samples and I want the lab.’ He peered down at Greg. When the DI simply looked back at him, Sherlock raised his eyebrows high on his forehead, ‘I’m serious, Lestrade!’ 

‘So am I. ...two hours,’ Greg attempted a compromise. ‘Spend two hours with your brother, get everything you can. Then you can do what you want with Anderson’s samples; set them on fire if you think it’s going to help. But first, you go to your brother.’ 

Sherlock drew back his head, quietly contrite, and nodded his head. ‘Two hours, then,‘ he conceded.


	3. Chapter 3

Total silence befell Sherlock as he entered the Diogenes Club, seeking out the rear meeting rooms where he had texted ahead and arranged to see his brother. With his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, Sherlock sauntered through the grand building with an air of fancy until he came to Mycroft’s favourite spot. He drew his right hand from his pocket and knocked twice with the knuckle of his middle finger against the mahogany panel. ‘Alright, Sherlock, just come in,’ Mycroft’s exasperated moan filtered quietly through and Sherlock smirked at the minor fraternal victory of annoyance as he reached for the brass doorknob and allowed himself into the room. He was met by Mycroft resting back against the large, hardwood desk with his right ankle crossed over the left, peering at him distastefully. ‘Do you not think we see enough of one another, without you intruding on the time I dedicate solely to being away from you?’ 

Sherlock drew his left hand from his pocket and mockingly over-pronounced a shrug, making an immature face just to aggravate his brother as he did it. He dropped his hands and blinked listlessly, ‘I need some information on an employee of yours.’ 

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and stood fully, ‘Oh? Whom might that be?’ 

‘Andrew Carter; Welshman, there’s a possibility he’s been absent from work in the last week.’ Sherlock explained, watching Mycroft walk around the desk to sit in the grand looking chair behind it. 

Mycroft reached for the telephone on his desk and held the receiver to his ear. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, and spoke after a moment when a voice came into his ear. ‘Yes, please have a tray sent in - fresh juices, fruits if you have them, white bread sandwiches where possible. Thank you…’ he dropped the phone back into the holder. ‘Sit down, Sherlock,’ he shook his head, ‘Or the next call I make will be to emergency services.’ Sherlock obeyed the request without questioning, sitting in the dome-shaped chair before the desk. ‘Shaking hands, pale face, slightly imperfect speech. Since you were eleven years of age, the signs have been so clear to everyone else and yet your extraordinary ability to ignore it and battle through is amazing,’ he raised his eyebrows at his brother. ‘What was your last blood glucose level and when?’ 

Sherlock rubbed below his nose with his right hand languidly, ‘Five… half an hour ago.’ 

‘And your beloved Detective Inspector didn’t encourage you to seek sustenance before sending you off to do his dirty work?’ Mycroft raised his eyebrows, knowing full well he was baiting Sherlock at an inappropriate time, but then again he was his older brother and baiting the younger was perhaps the most fulfilling of jobs he had simply by being born first. Sherlock flicked his hand in lieu of anything verbal. In a moment, there was a knock at the door and Mycroft beckoned the caller in. A man in a smart tailored suit stepped in pushing a trolley laid out with finger food and a glass jug filled with fruit juice and ice cubes. Mycroft thanked him and dismissed him with one simple nod and watched him bow his head before he disappeared back out into the hallway. ‘Eat something, bring your levels up - and then we’ll talk.’ 

Two sickening triangles of ‘cheese sandwich’, a banana and a half-pint of sweet mango juice later, Sherlock appeased Mycroft’s withering eyes with a respectable BM reading of seven, delight from which Sherlock drew as he waved the meter reading in Mycroft’s face. He knew it would rise further, thanks to his intake, and was dreading if a correction would have to be made. ‘So,’ Sherlock said, licking his tongue around his mouth to clear the remnants of cheese from his teeth. ‘Will you tell me about him now?’ 

Mycroft steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on the armrests of his chair, and smiled patronisingly at his younger brother. ‘Ask your questions, brother mine, and let us see where it takes us.’ 

Sherlock felt like launching across the desk and taking his brother by his too-neat tie to ram him against the wall with. Instead, he settled for tutting. ‘Did his background checks present anything?’ 

‘He wouldn’t have got the job if they did,’ Mycroft responded, quick and remaining patronising. ‘Sherlock, why don’t you just get to your core objective and then I can provide you with anything relevant?’ 

‘It’s classified.’ Sherlock wet his lips. 

Mycroft smirked, ‘Nothing is classified, least of all your police records, so take very careful consideration before you place your next chess piece.’ 

Sherlock grumbled so loudly he resembled a starting motorbike. ‘If you’re not going to provide me with anything of worth, I can turn around and leave. I don’t care.’ He pushed himself to his feet and made all bodily efforts to look like he would leave, hoping to turn the tables on his brother and be the one baiting him for a change. When Mycroft seemed unphased, Sherlock wanted to kick himself. Still, he wouldn’t back down where Mycroft was concerned and so he walked straight for the door and turned the handle. 

‘I can access his records, but not from here,’ Mycroft spoke up, and Sherlock grinned into the panelling of the door. When his brother turned to face him, Mycroft continued. ‘But we don’t have many Welshmen in the line of work that he was in, so there are some things I can recall easily.’ 

Sherlock remained standing, but hovered behind the chair he’d just risen from. ‘Like?’ 

‘He was listed as single, with no intentions of engagement or marriage, but he wore a solid, gold band on his wedding finger. Some people do, I know, but when asked about his wife by a colleague, he responded with ‘she is kept in line,’ and then laughed. I recall finding that to be an odd response at the time; but one never knows…’ Mycroft flicked his eyes over his brother’s tall frame.

‘Never knows what?’ Sherlock egged him on. 

‘Whether one is in the presence of a criminal or just an...eccentric.’ Mycroft smiled at him, and raised his eyebrows. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and thrust air from his pursed lips. ‘Goodbye, Mycroft.’ He turned on his heels and took the three strides across the floor to the door. He reached for the handle and pulled the door open. ‘If you decide not to be such an intransigent arsehole, maybe you can get in touch with some information when you’re in a better position to access it?’ he didn’t wait for a response, or the gratification of seeing Mycroft’s face when he took the last word. He dragged the door shut behind him as he stepped out, and trailed through the Club until he found daylight again.

* * * * * 

‘Yeah, thanks…’ Greg threw out his arms and shook his head at Sherlock as the young man stood with him in his office. ‘...pissing off the British Government is really going to help us here. Cheers.’ 

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped and he tutted petulantly, ‘It’s Mycroft, Lestrade. You know as well as I do he’s a pedantic little prick. When he knows I’m not going grovelling back, he’ll come to me and do what I want him to do. It’s always worked like that. Get your knickers from up your arse and stop making out like I’ve just thrown this entire case on the fire.’ 

‘I don’t mind you playing the spoilt teenager on the meagre cases, Sherlock, but this right here is important. A woman died…’ Greg didn’t know how else to vent and resorted to simply shaking his head. 

‘That’s what people do,’ Sherlock said bluntly. ‘All lives end, Lestrade; you work homicides, suicides… this isn’t news to you.’ 

Greg pointed his right index finger at Sherlock and nodded his head with obvious sarcasm. ‘There’s the Sherlock that Sally knows and loves,’ he remarked and could see that it stung the younger man by the way his eyes flashed and flicked side to side, as if searching Greg’s face for a punchline. ‘You better be right, Sherlock, because if you’re not…’ 

‘If I’m not, then you go to Pembrokeshire and actually investigate this like a competent cop.’ Sherlock offered his own bite of scathing and watched Greg’s expression go from ‘ouch’ to ‘yeah, I deserved that’. ‘Lestrade, I can’t get this case out of my mind - I want the answers too, so don’t look at me like I’m trying to sabotage it.’ 

‘Just think things through next time, Sherlock,’ Greg softened his approach. ‘This isn’t the right time for your sibling rivalry, okay?’ He braced his left hand on his hip and rubbed the fingers of his right across his forehead. ‘Donovan and Pierce were on with Pembrokeshire while you were annoying your brother,’ he said quietly, and drew his hand down from his forehead. 

‘And?’ Sherlock pressed him. 

Greg shrugged, ‘Regards were passed on to the vic’s family and we appealed to them for any information at all about her, her ex-partner, or anything else they could give us.’ 

‘And was anything provided?’ Sherlock pushed, a little disappointed with the answer he’d received. 

‘They’re grieving, Sherlock and it’ll take more than an ‘I’m sorry, loves’ from London police to prepare them to start talking to us. The officers down there said they’d keep records of anything that the family provided and patch it back to us.’ Greg pushed both hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

Sherlock lingered a moment and nodded his head. ‘Okay, so now what?’ he asked. 

‘Now we go back to the scene, trace what we can, try to begin to piece a picture together out of four unrelated shards of a thousand piece jigsaw.’ Greg intoned. ‘Are you stable? I might need you for a few hours…’ 

Sherlock shrugged, then nodded his head, ‘For what?’ 

‘We’re going to try and hack into the Government’s internal internet system.’ Greg grinned without humour. 

Sherlock’s responding laugh, however, was genuine. ‘You’re not seriously considering you’d even be able to see beyond even a single level of their security systems?’ 

Greg shrugged, ‘Maybe, maybe not. Mycroft has information, I want it - and I have his codebreaking little brother on my team.’ He grinned a little more sincerely this time and it turned into a light laugh at the odd look on Sherlock’s face. ‘C’mon, I need a coffee and a cigarette - and then you and me are shutting ourselves in the computer lab until we get what we want either by hacking, or by your brother handing it over.’ Sherlock was about to nod his sceptical agreement when there was a knock at Greg’s door. The older man called out. ‘Yep?’

The door opened and Anderson stepped in, carrying a brown paper file in his right hand. ‘Analysis of the wooden splinters from the shards of wooden windowpane are a match to the shards found on the vic’s body,’ he said holding up the file. For a moment, his eyes scanned over Sherlock before he focused on Lestrade. 

Greg cringed, ‘A fucking windowpane.’ He shook his head and held his hand out to receive the document. ‘Does Molly have anything else ready?’ He asked. He flicked the file open in his hands and scanned down the page. He raised his eyes back up to Philip. 

‘She was rerunning a DNA sample while I was there, referencing it against a list of sex offenders…’ Anderson explained, lingering at the door. 

‘What good is that?’ Sherlock shook his head, ‘It isn’t a random attack, so unless she regularly acquainted herself with London’s paedophiles and rapists, it isn’t going to get her anywhere.’ 

‘Unless our civil servant is on the list,’ Greg said, looking to Sherlock. ‘It’s a possibility,’ he defended, despite the withering look the young man gave him. ‘It isn’t like you provided me with anything else to go on, Sherlock.’ He added, looking back down at the file to avoid Sherlock’s glare. He snapped the file closed in his hands and looked up at Anderson, ‘Thanks, Philip. Will you contact Molly for me, see if she’s yielded anything since you left?’ 

The dark haired man nodded his head, ‘Sir,’ he vocalised and turned to leave, bringing the door closed behind him. 

‘You’re wasting time,’ Sherlock said to him in the quiet of Anderson’s absence. ‘Everyone’s time, Lestrade.’ 

‘You know, you’re not always right, mate,’ Greg raised his voice slightly. ‘And appreciate your help though you know I do, I don’t always have to take your advice and I won’t…’ He turned at the waist and dropped the file down onto his desk, on top of everything else he was working toward, close to finishing, or hadn’t even glanced at. ‘If you’re going to go back to your brother, feel free to stay and help. If not, wipe my ridiculous computer idea from your mind and just go home.’ 

Sherlock frowned, ‘Lestrade?’ 

‘I never see the human aspect when I’m looking at things through your eyes - you have this uncanny ability to wipe all of that away and bring it down to something base and it isn’t always that simple. It’s the human tragedy that draws the need for me to actually have this job, you know? If people didn’t care, police wouldn’t matter. Laws wouldn’t be laws if it wasn’t humanly important to have them.’ He braced his hands on his hips, sweeping his blazer back with the action. ‘I need to remember that, because ultimately, there’s a girl dead and I need to work out why.’ He sniffed and gave Sherlock a shrug in response to his expression. ‘Stay or go, I don’t mind, but this _human tragedy_ needs my full attention so help the way I need you to help, or don’t help at all.’ 

Sherlock pushed his hands into his coat pockets. ‘I’m not nearly as inhuman as you like to believe I am.’ 

Greg snorted, ‘You’re not nearly as inhuman as _you_ like to believe you are; but right now your logical and scientific mind isn’t helping me remember that a family needs closure, needs answers as to why their daughter was raped and murdered and while science is important, so is remembering that we’re all human so that I can show sympathy and compassion when I tell them the facts….’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Why can’t the answer to the burning questions you have, and the fact that you’re losing your temper with me right now, be that you’re _too_ human. Why has it got to be me that’s flawed?’ He drew his left hand from his coat and made a move towards the door, holding his hand out to the handle. ‘I’ll try my brother again,’ he said as he pulled the door open. Greg watched Sherlock leave without saying anything, and turned his back on the door, facing his desk, when he was alone in his office. 

Perhaps Sherlock had a point - Greg’s infinite empathy had landed him in sticky situations his entire life. He and Sherlock, though, was not one of those sticky situations. His empathy had served him well in this case. Without his humanity, he and Sherlock would not be what they are to one another - losing Sherlock’s mind, and his friendship, by being _less human_ in the past would not have been a good thing. So Sherlock _didn’t_ have a point, not in scolding Greg for his need to know, need to put things right. He was human, would always be _human_ , even if Sherlock couldn’t fathom why he’d want to be.

______________________________________________________________________________________ 

‘...following the recent discovery of the body of a twenty-nine year old female who had been subjected to horrific sexual tortures prior to her death…’ 

Greg reached for the television controls and switched the TV on the counter to standby. BBC news had been running the story of the discovery of Alison’s body all morning, and he was getting sick of hearing himself giving vague answers to the reporter's questions, and the censored but still somehow graphic way in which they insisted talking about her death. Five days into the investigation and they had Alison’s cause of death - a head injury, and a heroin overdose - and they had identified the objects in the flat that had been used to vaginally and anal rape her...and nothing else. They knew her name, where she was born, and they knew where she died. Beyond those two defining facts, nothing in the middle was clear beneath the murky waters of the mystery surrounding how she came to her demise and it was beginning to break Greg’s resolve. He left his half-finished coffee on the kitchen counter and picked up his car keys from the round breakfast table in the centre of the kitchen. He left his flat, surprised that he’d managed to sleep till eight am without a call from someone, and slipped down to his car waiting outside. 

He arrived at the office half an hour later than he’d billed, thanks to morning traffic, and he stormed through the office toward his own small office with his coat in one hand and his phone and car keys in the other. ‘Sir,’ Sally called to him, rising from her desk as he breezed past him, and followed him into his office. ‘Pembrokeshire have been on the phone - our vic’s ex-partner, the one she moved here with, returned to Wales two weeks ago… he has a solid alibi, confirmed by six separate people, confirming he hasn’t left the local area at all; every day and evening is accounted for.’ She lingered in the doorway of his office and saw his shoulder slump as he dumped his belongings onto the visitor’s chair before his desk. 

Greg turned around to her, pocketing his mobile phone. ‘Shit.’ 

Sally nodded her head slowly, ‘So we’re back at square one, trying to figure out if she had any partners to fit with the Freak’s theory about it being somebody she knew. Or, we go back to the drawing board on local offenders and start hauling them in…’ 

Greg’s eyes bore into her, ‘Stop it, Sally; I won’t give you another verbal warning. One more comment on Sherlock…’ he inhaled, filling his chest, and let it out. ‘I’m not throwing his theory out, he’s got solid points and the Behavioural Analysts agree: the level of overkill is consistent with it being somebody she knew. But,’ he said as Sally opened her mouth to protest, ‘By all means, call in anyone on the register in the area and start gathering alibis for that night.’ 

Sally smiled slightly at her minor defeat. ‘Got it,’ she nodded, and slipped out of his office. 

In Donovan’s absence, Greg took his phone from his pocket and composed a text to Sherlock. _The ex-partner has a solid 2wk alibi. Back to the drawing board. I need your help._ He held the phone in his hand a moment before slipping back into his trouser pocket and rounding his desk. He dropped down into his chair and turned on his computer, allowing it to load while he sifted through the mess that was his desk to find out the DNA report that Molly had provided him with. He scanned back over it when he found it, at least, beneath a stained coffee mug and scrawled notes from Sherlock. He went over the lines time and time again - three separate DNA identifications, three different people, and no matches so far in their database that was providing them with any leads at all. He dropped the document back onto his desk and sat back in his chair. 

He broke down the case in his mind. A young woman, found sexually assaulted and dead; defense wounds on her arms; track marks but not a drug user; ...working toward her law degree; pretty; young; not very sociable - unable to find friends in the city to help with the case… He screwed his eyes closed. Nothing! Nothing! What were they missing? What was it that they weren’t seeing to give them some kind of thread, something solid to follow? 

He moved awkwardly in his chair as his phone chimed the arrival of a text. He drew it from his pocket and opened it quickly. _On my way_ it read simply, with Sherlock’s name above it. At least there was that, Greg thought. If nothing else, Sherlock’s analytical mind could perhaps be useful in wiping the slate clean and ebbing at nothing until it became something. He set his phone on the desk and folded his top lip in against his teeth, making a hissing as he sucked against it before releasing it again. Despite having just stubbed out a cigarette before walking into the building, all he could think of was lighting another. He rested his elbows in a space he could find on the desk and massaged his temples with his fingers. At some point, something had to give. Greg was a firm believer in the truth always coming out - he just wished it would hurry up about it.

* * * * * 

Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand as he chewed on one of the five biscuits Greg had set before him. ‘What about her parents?’ he asked, swallowing the malted milk down, and licked his lips. Greg had known as soon as the lad walked into his office that he’d bypassed breakfast to be here and he wasn’t about to risk hypoglycaemia when he needed Sherlock’s mind at full capacity. Sherlock picked up the plastic cup of lukewarm tea beside the biscuits and took a sip. It tasted vile, stocked with full-fat milk and extra sugars, but he knew pushing Greg’s patience would earn him hardship. 

‘What about them?’ Greg asked, sitting across the desk from Sherlock. 

‘Do they have an alibi?’ Sherlock elaborated as he put down the cup and folded his hands together in his lap. 

‘Another,’ Greg nodded at the plate of biscuits. ‘...and yes, they do. Not that they were ever suspected - not by any other mind but yours, anyway.’ He shook his head, mildly amused at Sherlock’s trains of thought. He looked back down at the speculative suspect profile he’d been reading and spoke with half-concentration. ‘There must have been somebody else she was involved with; another scorned lover, or ex-boyfriend, or somebody…’ he hummed. He looked up, ‘Sherlock, eat the bloody biscuits.’ Sherlock went to quip sarcastically at the older man but was stopped before he could even open his mouth by the door to Greg’s office flying open, without first being knocked. Sally stood in the doorway and offered her boss an almost pained look. Greg frowned at her, ‘What’s the matter?’ 

‘Euston Road, at the station...another body; similar looking injuries, probably going to be proved to be identical. She’s posed the same way Alison Greenwood was…’ Sally swallowed noisily. ‘We need to get down there.’ 

Greg thrust back his chair and got to his feet. ‘Stay here,’ he pointed at Sherlock, ‘I’ll call you if I need you.’ He rounded his desk and followed Sally as she left his office. 

‘No, I’m coming with you - if this is a serial killer then it blows everything out of the water…’ Sherlock said, jumping to his feet and jogging to catch Greg. 

‘Piss anyone off and you’re immediately out of there, got it?’ Greg jabbed his finger at Sherlock, walking backwards to save time. Sherlock’s nod secured the DI enough of a confirmation of his request to sate him, and they continued on their way.


End file.
